


of course, a garden

by bazzystar, mutationalfalsetto



Series: The Brooklyn Avengers [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Brooklyn Avengers, Fluff, Gardening, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Rooftop Gardening, Rooftop Party, Sexual Content, garden au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazzystar/pseuds/bazzystar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutationalfalsetto/pseuds/mutationalfalsetto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's not like we're inviting the whole damn Avengers."</p><p>In which Bucky develops a new, non-murdery skill set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of course, a garden

My dragonfly,  
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing  
for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,  
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape  
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is  
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying _Hold me_  
_tight, it's getting cold._ We have not touched the stars,  
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
not from the absence of violence, but despite  
the abundance of it.

-Richard Siken, _Snow and Dirty Rain_

* * *

 

He hears Steve and Sam in the stairwell, hears them when they’re still down inside the apartment, if he’s being honest. He is on the roof, wrist-deep in soil, and he doesn’t flinch when the door clangs open. He withdraws his hand gently, slowly, from the hole, pressing the earth firmly into place around the bulb of the iris, and sits back on his heels to look at it. The garden is coming along nicely, he thinks, and as if Steve can read his mind he says, “It’s looking really good, Buck,” from behind him. Sam, meanwhile, has circled around to his left side, and is now standing there staring at him, arms folded.

“What?”

“Don’t start,” Steve says. “I’ve tried.”

“This is the hair, man? This is what you’re doing now. Really.”

“It’s convenient!” he protests as he stands. Steve raises his eyebrows at Sam, mouths _Told you_.

“You got a hair tie on your ass-kicking arm. You’re planting flowers. Did I miss something? Is this the next stage of settling down, you gotta start wearing a bun? Gardening?”

He looks at Steve. “Are you gonna have one eventually?” Steve bursts out laughing.

His hand goes protectively up to the knot at the crown of his head. “I need it out of my face.”

“I seem to recall you doing just fine with it in your face.”

“I didn’t need to see to kick your ass, bird-boy. Orchids, on the other hand. Much more challenging.”

Steve sighs, but his smile is too fond for Bucky to take it seriously.

“We’ve been watching a lot of, uh, home improvement shows. It’s apparently a trend, the hair thing. I don’t, uh - only one of us needs to be fashionable, I think.”

Bucky and Sam roll their eyes in unison. Sam tweezes the sleeve of Steve’s ragged t-shirt between thumb and forefinger, grimaces, says, “I guess _so_. Is this the shirt you died in? Is this from the actual forties?”

It’s Bucky’s turn to laugh then, and it bubbles out of him like a spring. It hasn’t been all that long, and sometimes he still wakes in the middle of the night gasping and crying and reaching for Steve, sure that he isn’t there, sure that the last six months of his life have been a dream, but he laughs. He looks at the garden, the orderly rows of beets and carrots, the carefully constructed cucumber-leafed trellis that shades the lettuce.

“What is this?” Sam asks, peering into the compost barrel. Steve actually groans this time. “ _Really_ don’t start.”

Bucky grins, sharp and dangerous, and leans in close. Sam freezes, torn between minimizing movement at all costs and backing the hell away. _Christ_. His body chooses the former for him, remains stationary.

“You wanna see some worms?”

He says it softly, a secret that isn’t meant to leave the roof. Absurdly, Sam’s reminded of the time his little sister made him sit down to watch _Stand By Me_ in its entirety. _Do you guys wanna go see a dead body?_

He unfreezes bit by bit, staring all the while at Bucky, who’s still standing there with that stupid, predatory grin on his stupid, hipster face.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re unsettling?”

Bucky barks out a laugh that is almost delighted. Steve looks like he’s entered his own personal hell.

 

* * *

 

It started with books from the library, their spines cracking like they hadn’t been opened in all their years sitting on the shelf. Bucky used Steve’s library card ( _"you think I have a proof of address, Rogers?”_ ) and brought them home in one of the totes Steve got from the farmer’s market, a beige thing with a picture of some smiling carrots.

He racked up a whopping $10 in late fees (“ _this is robbery, you know that, right? Ten dollars?”_ ) and when he finally remembered to return the books their pages were stained with dirt.

It started with books from the library and progressed to the internet (“ _so helpful,” Steve murmuring in his ear, tapping the screen over his shoulder_ ). Tips and tricks for making things grow, sustaining life. If he felt uneasy about his qualifications, if his dreams were slowly transitioning from the crunch of bones under his hands to the bowing heads of flowers, withered stems collapsing back into the earth, he didn’t say anything about it to Steve.

They went to a gardening store. They bought seeds.

“Do we really need this many?”

Steve had looked incredulously into the basket, the bottom covered with an eclectic mix of flowers, vegetables, and fruit ( _“listen, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but tomatoes aren’t a fruit, Steve”_ ).

“ _Steven_.” Bucky had almost pouted, not pausing as he dumped more seeds into the basket seemingly at random. “I’m trying to bring some life into this city and _you_ —“

“Buck, I don’t think—“

“Some _life_ , Steven!”

More tomatoes. Cucumbers. Something that said something about ‘ _s_ _easonal_ ’ on one of the packets, quickly covered by probably the world’s most hideous watering can. He had picked that up gingerly, like it was liable to explode. “ _Elephants_ , Bucky?”

But Bucky was already halfway down the aisle. “Fuck off, Rogers,” he said cheerfully, looking down at a shopping list that Steve was sure he hadn’t referenced _at all_ during their trip until that very moment. “I’m gonna go find some worms.”

 

* * *

 

“This one’s name is Sam,” he says now with that same wolfy smile. “Actually, this one could be Dolores. It’s hard to tell.”

Sam and Steve make eye contact over his bowed head. “You named… the worms,” Sam says finally. “And the worms are… for… what exactly?”

Bucky straightens up eagerly. “The plants,” he exclaims. “Worm composting helps get nutrients to the plants more than if we just threw all our scraps into the compost bin like _someone_ suggested.”

“Buck, I didn’t--”

“‘ _The plants will grow just fine on their own, Buck’_ ,” Bucky says, his voice rising a few octaves for the desired effect. “‘ _We can just buy our_ produce  _from the_ grocery store _in the_ meantime _, Buck’!_ ”

Steve looks almost ill. “Ever since he found out about the bananas he’s just-”

“ _Do not_ mention bananas to me right now, Steve, the wound is still healing-”

“He doesn’t trust the produce of the future.”

“You shouldn’t either,” he grumbles, stirring the compost pile with his metal arm. Steve groans.

“Buck, ugh, can you at least - isn’t there a _stick_ or something, do you have to-”

“It comes right off!”

“Yeah, in the _shower_ , and then I’m standing around in mud for three days until it all drains-”

He pulls his arm out of the compost and spins around, grabs Steve with his right hand, pulls him close. “Oh no,” he drawls. “Gonna ruin your shirt.”

Then he wraps both his arms tight around Steve and kisses him hard.

When they finally pull away from each other Sam is pointedly fiddling with the clematis winding its way up the water tower. Steve looks a bit dazed, smiling dreamily, and Bucky knows he’s probably wearing the same expression.

“ _Well_ ,” Steve says. Bucky grins and holds up his left hand, palm and forearm shining clean. Steve sighs.

 

* * *

 

The summer passes lazily.

Bucky doesn’t go out much, content to stay up on the roof with the plants.

Steve is gone most days, probably looking for the remaining members of HYDRA, but they don’t talk about that at night.

He knows they will, eventually, but he senses that Steve still wants to protect him. He thought he’d find that annoying, but he doesn’t somehow, feels safe and cocooned as he dozes on the roof with the brim of his hat pulled low.

Steve comes upstairs when he gets home and looks at the garden, at Bucky, and the look on his face is wistful and proud and full of love. They make dinner, talk about splicing and tenting and all the different ways Bucky is learning to care for things, to keep them alive.

There’s one night that they spend on the roof, clutching the edges of a huge blue tarp, protecting the plants from hail. They don’t get to sleep until almost three in the morning, and Steve almost weeps when Bucky throws himself out of bed just a few hours later to check on them.

“The kale is so fragile right now!” he calls as he darts up the stairs.

Steve mouths _fuck the kale_ at the ceiling and rolls over.

Bucky burrows back into the bed a few minutes later, smelling like sun and green and rain on pavement.

“We saved it,” he says into the side of Steve’s neck. The words vibrate across his skin. “Thank you.”  

Steve kisses him drowsily on the temple. “S’okay, Buck.”

He’s talking about more than the plants, the garden - he’s talking about this life, their home, _them_ \- but he doesn’t know how to say that, so he nuzzles deeper into the hollow between Steve’s neck and shoulder and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

July comes and he hasn’t lost a single plant, hasn’t killed even one. Sam did something to the birds that made them leave the garden alone, which is good, because Bucky doesn’t think he has any qualms about kicking a pigeon.

He thinks about dinner as he surveys the garden in the morning light, crouching down next to one of the tomato cages. He's got recipes marked downstairs, plans on giving away what he can't use. Clint could use some fresh produce, he thinks.

"James." The apprehension in Natasha’s voice is enough to make him still over the tomatoes, metal hand outstretched to pick a ripe one off the vine.

He doesn't move, but his arm reacts to the sudden spike in adrenaline, belying his otherwise calm exterior. He feels the gears contracting, the shifting of plates. Whatever it is that put that note of fear in her voice, he’s ready.

"у тебя есть что-то--"

Whatever she was going to say next catches in her throat as he turns around, tomato clutched triumphantly between two fingers.

She looks horrified, but also - amused? A hint of a smile. There is the soft _whrrrr_ again as the plates settle. Threat absent.

He looks around, scans the roof. “что-то страшное?”

“ _Очень_ страшный.” She laughs. “That _hair_.”

Natasha moves in for a hug and he only tenses for a moment before relaxing into it.

“Thought you were gonna tase me.”

“Day’s not over yet. And they’re not _tasers_. Don’t change the subject. What _is_ this?”

She sweeps her arms, somehow encompassing his entire being. He places the tomato in her outstretched hand and she looks at it like it’s a grenade. “Is this witness protection?”

The look Bucky gives her is positively withering. “You see any witnesses that need protecting?”  
  
Natasha gives him a look right back. “Would you remember if there were?” It’s a jab that she wouldn’t make if Steve was around. She can see his disappointed expression in her mind’s eye, that Captain America Is Not Happy face. James doesn’t care, though. He knows what this is.

“You know me,” he says, tapping his forehead with a dirt-covered finger. It leaves a smudge in its wake. “Mind like a steel trap.”

“I _know_ you.” She allows herself a small smile. “And I’ve _never_ envisioned you gardening.”

He laughs, turns back to his tomatoes.

“ _Молодец,_ ” he murmurs, plucking another fruit off the vine with a tenderness she wouldn’t have thought possible with his metal hand. So full of surprises.

“So, James…” She waits until he looks at her, waves her hands again at the bun, the… _everything_. “Midlife crisis?”

Two more tomatoes make their way into her hands. She sighs, cradling them against her with the first one.

“It’s in _style_ ,” he says emphatically. “At the.” He waves his hand, a vague gesture as the word floats just out of reach. “The… _fuck_. Whatsit.” Natasha raises an eyebrow, waits as the motion becomes something familiar. Scissors. “Where you go for your hair?”

Ah. “Salon?”

He nods gratefully. “They told me it was ‘a look’.” Both metal and flesh form air quotes around the word.

She sits daintily on an upturned bucket and hopes it doesn’t get dirt on her pants. “Oh, it’s definitely _a look._ ”

“ _Мудак_.”

Natasha sticks her tongue out, a childish action for a childish response. “Поцелуй мою жопу, Джеймс.”

Bucky pitches forward as if shot, clutches his chest. “You kiss your _mother_ with that mouth?”

“Mother Russia accepts all of her children,” she responds primly.

Bucky makes a choking noise into the plant, muffling his laugh. Natasha inspects the tomatoes, basking in the knowledge that she’s won this round.

They sit in comfortable silence, Bucky moving through the garden. Every now and again she hears something soft, murmured Russian that’s meant only for the plants. He looks happier here.

He catches her looking, motions to the kale. “Finicky little fucker,” he says. She nods, as if she has any knowledge of kale besides the fact that she regularly avoids it in the grocery store when she shops. It’s too bitter. Leaves a strange taste in her mouth.

Natasha takes a bite out of one of the tomatoes, enjoying the subtle sweetness of it, the earthy flavor she doesn’t experience with store-bought produce. There is the grit of something like dirt between her teeth, the texture of the outdoors, the taste of sunshine. The silence is growing too amiable for her tastes.

“You ever consider growing one of those lumberjack beards? Maybe one of those handlebar moustaches?”

Another choking noise. “Natalia, I swear to _Christ_ \--”

“No? Too masculine? Too rugged?”

“I am not engaging with this. Look, the strawberries are-”

“The pretty-boy never dies, does he?”

He turns around. She’s smirking.

“Not technically,” he allows. He rubs his chin. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up with seventy years of stubble. It changes a man. So _itchy_.”

She rolls her eyes. “A month’s worth of stubble, James. Hair doesn’t grow when you’re frozen.”

“Still, though,” he says, handing her a cucumber, which she places on top of the pile she’s made next to the bucket. “I can’t do it. Besides, _some_ people think I have a very appealing jawline.”

She makes quiet retching sounds. She doesn’t know what it is about James that brings out the little sister in her, but she delights in this gentle torture, and she senses he does too.

“You should shave the sides of your head,” she says now, only half kidding. “Really commit to this whole bit that you’re doing. Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”

“I’m not a _sailor_ , Nat,” he says, appalled, and his genuine offense sends her over the edge into helpless giggles. After a moment he starts laughing too, and they’re still sitting there holding their sides when Steve shows up.

 

* * *

 

Bucky peers over the edge of the roof. He scans the sidewalk below, looking for something familiar in the people walking by. When nothing catches his eye he frowns, pulls away to check his phone. There’s a handful of seconds between when he slips the phone back into his pocket and when he begins the cycle again. In those seconds, Steve wonders if maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

Still, with the summer winding down and the trees just beginning to change, a party (“ _a get-together, Steve. Casual. It’s not like we’re inviting the whole damn Avengers_ ”) seemed like a good idea. A chance to get rid of some of what is now officially too much produce. Bucky threw himself into the planning, despite Steve insisting that they could “just order a _pizza_ , for fuck’s sake”. He’ll never admit it - he’s made all the apologies he’s going to make - but he still worries sometimes that they don’t like him. He still wants to make it up to them.

He’s been through his sidewalk-and-phone check three times now. Steve sets a hand on his shoulder, steers him gently away from the edge of the roof. “They have ten minutes,” he reminds him. Doesn’t point out the fact that Bucky was _frequently_ late to get-togethers way back when. Fashionably late. Whatever he called it.

He’s dragging the grill around the roof, trying to figure out where the smoke will be least likely to blow toward the plants, when Sam swoops down.

“Fuck, am I the first one here?” he asks. “I’ll come back.”

Metal clangs on metal as Bucky grabs his right wing. “No, you won’t,” he says, low and silky. “You’ll sit down right now and have a beer. Steve, get this man a beer. He just flew in and his arms are so tired.”

“That _joke_ is tired--”

“ _So. Tired_.” Bucky taps his finger on Sam’s wing for emphasis.

Steve says, “Booooo,” and hands Sam a bottle and an opener that says _Stark Expo ‘43!_

He shucks off the wings and takes the beer, sits down on what appears to be an overturned apple crate. “Nat’s on her way,” he says after he takes a swallow. “I saw her bike about two minutes ago.”

“Good!” says Bucky delightedly. “I’ll put the kebabs on!”

Sam looks at Steve, who just shuts his eyes. The man has accepted his fate, he thinks. There is a small _ping_ from somewhere down below and Bucky yelps.

“Steve! Pizza!”

“On it, boss,” Steve says, and lopes away down the stairs. He’s back in less than a minute, holding a gigantic wooden paddle in a pair of very stupid oven mitts. He hooks his foot around another crate, slides it toward himself, and sets the pizza down. He takes off the fuzzy bear paws and shoots a dangerous glance at Sam, daring him to comment. Sam, however, is too distracted by the wonder that now sits before him, steaming.

Bucky slams the lid of the grill and dashes over, pulling a fistful of herbs out of - somewhere. “One second,” he says, and then he gently places six perfect basil leaves at intervals around the pizza. He stands back, beams triumphantly, and takes a _goddamn picture with his phone_.

“Really?” Sam has officially had it with James Buchanan Barnes.

“Olives, tomatoes, and the _best_ damn pesto you will ever eat, bird-boy.”

Steve starts rolling a pizza cutter across the board. Behind him, Nat opens the door, holding something that looks like a cake. She sets that down on the table-crate and makes a beeline for the grill, taking off her helmet as she goes. Bucky catches her eye. She mouths, _шашлык?_ raising her eyebrows, and he nods. She grins delightedly.  

“Did you _make_ this?”

Sam’s staring at the pizza like he hasn’t waxed poetic about Bucky’s cooking before. Bucky gives him a look that says as much, and tears into a slice.

“Steve wouldn’t let me make the other stuff,” he says around a mouthful of crust and cheese. “I wanted to make chutney.” Steve rolls his eyes heavenward. _Casual get-together, my ass._

Sam gives Bucky a pained look.

“Can we not? With your mouth open?”

Bucky grins, and for a second Sam thinks he’s going to open his mouth and stick out his tongue, that old _see food_ joke. He wouldn’t put it past the guy, but hopes for all their sakes that Bucky’s got a little more class than that. He takes a bite of pizza. Resists the urge to make pornographic noises in public. Fuck Barnes and his cooking skills, honestly.

“So?” Bucky looks from the pizza to Sam and wiggles his eyebrows. Sam wrestles his expression into something a little less euphoric, takes another sip of his beer, some craft nonsense that he’s pretty sure cost fifteen dollars for a four-pack.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, but Steve lunges in, positively beaming. “I grated the cheese.”

This time it’s Bucky who looks to the heavens for strength before he says, very measuredly, “Steve did grate the cheese.”

Sam looks back and forth between them. “Is this, like, a domestic dispute, because I got a thing-”

Bucky gives Steve a pointed look, and Steve says, “There was an incident. A few months ago. It was no big deal-”

“It was a _fire_ , Steve, which is almost the definition of a big deal-”

“It was a small fire! It went right out!”

“- _ruined_ my Le Creuset pan, I didn’t even know that was _possible_ -”

“I just wanted to help!”

“ _Anyway_ ,” says Bucky firmly, setting down his pizza and clasping Steve’s hand in his metal one, “now Steve doesn’t do anything with the stove or the oven or anything else that gets very hot and could kill us in our sleep or at any other time, and everything is _fine_.”

He looks Sam dead in the eyes. “So. _Do you like it_?”

Sam, who is at this moment trying to cram his entire slice of pizza into his mouth so that he can pick up another one ( _caught, dammit_ ), says, “Mmf.”

Bucky beams.

Nat glides over then, holding a skewer loaded with chunks of meat.

“Clint’s here,” she says, just before the door bangs open.

“Freaky,” Sam mutters, swallowing. She shoots him a look. “He texted me,” she says drily.

Clint has a black eye, which isn’t surprising, and a labrador retriever, which kind of is. Bucky is torn between utter panic at the thought of a _dog_ near his _garden_ and pure, unbridled joy because _there is a dog_. Steve sees the tension in his face and says, “Lucky is a good dog, Buck. Very well-behaved. Or so I’ve been told.” Clint gives a little one-shouldered shrug and says, “Better than most of the people here.” He unslings his quiver from his back and pulls a bottle of wine from it. Steve raises his eyebrows, nods approvingly.

“Just the Brooklyn Avengers tonight, I see,” Clint says, trapping Lucky’s leash under the heaviest-looking crate and sitting down on it.

Sam clears his throat.

“And Sam,” he amends, inclining his head. Bucky snorts a laugh and drops to the ground, letting Lucky sniff both his hands before giving him an exuberant head-scratch. The dog closes his eyes and leans in, pillowing his chin in his metal palm. “Gooood dog,” he murmurs. “Gooood dog who isn’t going to dig up my potatoes. What a pretty boy. Gooood pretty boy. Yes, you are. Yes, yes, yes.”

Clint says, “All right, I need alcohol if that’s gonna keep happening.”

“Calm down, Barton, I’ll get to you in a minute,” Bucky says from where he’s sitting. Lucky lets out a soft _whuff_ in response. “Clint is _jealous_ , Lucky. Because you are the _handsomest_ boy. Yes.”

Clint rolls his eyes, but gets off the crate once he’s sure Lucky isn’t going to destroy anything in the time it takes him to get a beer and come back. When he sits down again, Bucky reaches out to ruffle his hair. “ _What a handsome boy_ ,” he coos, scrambling to his feet before Clint moves to shove him away.  
  
“Buck, stop harassing Clint,” Steve calls from the opposite end of the roof. He’s on his fifth piece of pizza, which is a rare show of self-control. Gold star for Steve.

Bucky, who has begun inching steadily closer to Clint, gives Steve a ‘ _who, me?_ ’ look. Steve wonders if the heavens are getting tired of his constant pleas for strength, or if they’ve got him on a punchcard system now. Ask two times ( _okay, more than two_ ) get _an entire lifetime’s worth_ free.

He’s eating his sixth piece, which he smuggled over to the other side of the roof with him, when Nat sidles up to him.

Perhaps ‘sidle’ isn’t the best word. ‘Appears out of thin air’ is more appropriate. Nat doesn’t _sidle_ anywhere.

Steve, being the epitome of Calm, Cool, and Collected, being Captain America himself, does not jump. Just like he doesn’t drop the pizza on the ground.

He stares at it in dismay.

“Five second rule,” Nat deadpans.

He looks at her in genuine horror. “What is the _five second rule_? Does that mean I eat...the… off the….” He trails off, weakly gesturing at the slice, which - he shudders - has landed facedown.

“I’m sorry, you don’t know what the five second rule is?”

Clint is walking toward them, Lucky’s leash in his hand. “I’ll take care of this, but Cap - you’ve been awake long enough that you gotta get at least a little bit with the times. I mean, even Barnes has that goddamn Instagram.”

Steve looks at Bucky, totally lost now. “Is that the thing you put the pictures of the food on?”

Bucky watches the dog lick the pizza off the roof, his face very calm despite the fact that the panels on the metal arm are going crazy, whirring and clicking. Clint looks at him. “If you hurt my dog, I will shoot you in the eye with one of the exploding arrows, metal man.”

Bucky folds his arms, breathes deeply. “I’m just… so happy that he gets to experience such fine cuisine.”

Clint smirks. “I’m sure he appreciates it.”

Steve, meanwhile, is actively trying not to actually wring his hands, and finally Sam takes pity. “Look,” he says, tapping the screen of his phone. “It’s the thing with the pictures of the food.”

“What is…” Steve squints at the screen. “Why do all of these words have number signs? What is _food porn_?”

Sam laughs. “I’m _from_ this era and I don’t get it. But at least I finally understand his username.”

Steve looks at the tiny round picture, which appears to be a raw chicken wearing sunglasses. Next to it is the word RIPLECREUSET.

“Ripple… what?” He’s starting to wonder if he’s able to get drunk after all. He feels like he might be.

“R.I.P. Le Creuset,” Bucky says, raising his eyebrows. “Long may she reign.”

Steve sighs heavily. “Ah.”

Nat takes the phone. “If I’m in any of these pictures, I’m going to kill you, James.”

“Why would you be in the pictures? It’s for beautiful food, Natasha, not tiny, angry redheads.”

She flaps a hand at him, too pleasantly buzzed to take the bait, and drifts back toward the food. Clint, seeing that Lucky is done with the roof-pizza and is now surreptitiously trying to stretch his neck out far enough to seize the remaining half a slice in Bucky’s hand, starts after her. “You’re welcome, Barnes,” he drawls as he pulls the dog away. Bucky huffs.

Sam drains the last of his beer, gives Bucky a look. Darts his eyes at Steve and then back at Bucky, and then he lifts the empty bottle and strolls away toward the others.

Bucky looks at Steve, whose face is pensive.

Bucky nudges him gently. “Are they making you feel old?”

Steve laughs, but it’s almost sad. “A little, actually.”

He looks at Bucky.

“You’re adjusting really well, you know? Better than me in a lot of ways, and it’s been so much longer for me.”

He sighs, rests his forearms on the edge of the roof and leans. “Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever get it.”

Bucky looks at him then, ducks his head down so Steve has to meet his eyes.

“You know, they woke me up every once in awhile.”

Steve winces. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, no, I just mean - I had some kind of idea that time was passing, Steve. At least somewhere in my mind. The technology changed, the weapons changed, the outfits. I had to be able to cope. They - they made me a chameleon. I didn’t just slam into consciousness after seventy goddamn years.”

He takes Steve’s hand in his metal one, interlaces their fingers and squeezes hard. “I’m just saying, I shouldn’t be your bar for… normal adjustment.”

Steve puts his other hand over their joined ones, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s fair, I guess.”

Bucky darts in, kisses him behind the ear. “I’ll teach you how to use apps. I’ll teach you about hashtags.”

Steve smiles for real then, pulls him in for a real kiss. He breaks away just enough to speak, their lips brushing as he says, “I don’t know what that means, but I’m game.”

There is a wolf whistle from the food table. Bucky flips them a metal bird, winds his other hand into Steve’s shirt and lays one more on him.

“C’mon, Cap,” he says, taking his hand again. “It’s time for dessert.”

 

* * *

 

“I’d say that was a success,” Steve says as he collects the last of the empty beer bottles, placing them carefully into a plastic bag so they can be recycled. Bucky, who is thoroughly inspecting each of his plant children, merely hums in reply. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky turns to him, holding a tiny flower. He’s smiling. He’s so lovely.

Steve says, “Good?”

Bucky nods. “Very good.” He walks toward Steve, those measured steps he takes now, and hands him the flower.

“Thank you,” he says. “For putting up with me. Letting me do all this.”  
Steve rolls his eyes. “You say that like it’s a chore.” He puts a hand on Bucky’s chest. “I’d dig a ditch every day for the rest of my life if I got to do it with you. A dinner party is hardly the worst thing that could happen.”

Bucky flushes, smiles, looks down. He puts his hand under Steve’s and brings the flower up between them. “Look,” he says. “You ever done this?”

Steve looks at him. “Ever… seen a flower?”

“It’s honeysuckle, stupid,” Bucky says fondly. “Look.” He takes the flower, holds it gently with his metal hand. He pinches the end of it with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand and then, carefully, he pulls a slender thread out through the bottom of the cup of petals. He holds it up, and in the dim glow of the Christmas lights strung across the roof Steve can see a small, clear drop glistening at the end of it. “What is it?” he asks. They are so close together.

“Open your mouth,” Bucky says, and Steve does. Their hips are almost touching. Bucky puts the little stem on his tongue and there is a small, bright burst of sweetness. “That’s why they call it that,” Bucky says, his eyes on Steve’s mouth. His hand hovers in the air, close enough to touch, and Steve leans forward and kisses his palm. He cups Bucky’s hand against his face, puts his lips to the pulse beating fast and hard under the skin of his wrist. Bucky shifts forward, a fraction of an inch, less, and then they are pressed together, Steve’s tongue in his mouth, his hands all over him. 

Steve slips a hand into his jeans, muttering _goddamn skinny pants_ into his mouth as he fumbles with the button. "You love them," Bucky says, more a breath than a sentence, and then he inhales sharply. "Oh-" 

 He can't finish the sentence, can't do anything other than roll his hips against Steve's hand and pull him closer, sliding his hands under his shirt and pulling it off. Steve hisses as the cold metal touches him, his breathing ragged, and shoves his pants all the way down, drops to his knees. Bucky lasts all of about three seconds like that before he rips his shirt off, rolls onto the ground and pulls Steve onto him. "Should we move?" Steve pants into his ear, hand already moving again. "Cushions?"

  Bucky is rapidly losing his capacity for speech, but he nods as much as he can without ever taking his mouth off Steve's. They fumble their way to the corner where Bucky naps, the outdoor cushions Steve made him buy because _you can't just sleep on the ground, Buck_ , and he has never been so grateful for a purchase in his life. Steve presses him into the cushions, moves down his body again, and Bucky tries to stifle a groan as he curls his fingers into Steve's hair, tries to fight the urge to jerk his hips against him, control the pace. He can feel Steve chuckle low in his throat and knows he knows, knows he senses how badly Bucky wants just to fuck his mouth but he won't let him; he doesn't want this to be over yet. He sits back on his heels, looks at Bucky spread out underneath him, and he smiles. Bucky almost comes then, just looking at him, the look on his _face_  - he looks like this every time, like he still can't believe it's real, can't believe his luck, and it's more than Bucky can take. 

  "Look at you," he breathes in wonder. "You love me."

 Steve's eyelashes flicker, and he lowers himself onto Bucky as he says, "You know I do." He bites his neck, presses into him slowly, sweetly. 

He pauses then, his mouth a fraction of an inch away from Bucky's, and says, "You do know that, right?"

Bucky's entire body is straining upward, begging, and his answer is a gasp. "Yes."

 He gasps again as Steve begins to move, hips rocking up to meet his thrusts. "I just-" he says, digging his fingers into the muscles of Steve's back, "I still don't- ah-" The words dissolve into a soft whine as they move together, and he presses his head back against the cushion, throat exposed, whimpering, a series of increasingly desperate sounds that he can't stop himself from making. 

 "I love you," Steve says, his lips against Bucky's ear, his breathing uneven. "I love you, Bucky Barnes, I-" His breath catches in his chest then, his whole body shuddering, and he cries out into Bucky's neck as he comes hard, shaking and panting, and the spasming of his hips finally pushes Bucky over the edge. He sinks his teeth into Steve's shoulder, winds his arms tight around him, pulling him as close as he can, writhing against him, and comes with a sound that is almost a sob. 

 They come down together, rocking against each other softly. Steve finally raises his head, looks down at Bucky. He strokes his hair, his face, traces the curve of his lips. Bucky closes his eyes, luxuriates in the gentle touch. Steve shifts to lay beside him, hand skimming across his collarbones before coming to rest where the metal arm joins his flesh, the ragged scar tissue. Steve kneads there, gently, his thumb rubbing small circles into the muscles. Bucky sighs contentedly and opens his eyes. Steve is looking at him, and he smiles. "Hey, punk."

 Bucky says, "I love you." 

 Steve's smile gets bigger, threatens to crack his face open, and he ducks his head to kiss Bucky's throat.

"You're worth everything," he murmurs into his neck. "Everything. Don't ever worry."

 Bucky closes his eyes again.

 There is a long silence before he sits up, pokes Steve in the side.

 "Steve."

 "Mmm."

 "What do you think about us beekeeping?"

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote something to make up for all the sad things we write.  
> The Brooklyn Avengers AU started as sort of a joke and became a tiny little universe where nothing really bad happens. Think slice of life anime, but post-Winter Soldier. We're not really getting into Civil War territory because we wouldn't really know what to do there - hence, Brooklyn Avengers (and Sam). You can expect more of these slices in the future, so if you're interested in watching these darling idiots have a good life, stick around. We'll be contributing individually and more collabs; there will be shenanigans. Feedback and/or ideas for future slices always welcome!  
> Also, we'd like to shout out to [idiopathicsmile](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1488142), for writing a perfect thing about the bananas.


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